


Sanctuary

by Aesir



Series: five years [2]
Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Erik Killmonger, Cousin Incest, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Massage, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-05-07 09:44:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14668428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aesir/pseuds/Aesir
Summary: When he woke up again, Birnin Zana was lighting up the paling morning sky like a million faint points of stars beyond the windows. The room was still empty.





	Sanctuary

Erik was working his way through the palace mostly blind, dragging himself down the hallways. He knew the way back to his quarters from the medical wing well enough now that he didn’t really need to see where he was going, which was a relief: his eyes didn’t want to stay open more than a minute at a time. The doors slid open whisper-quiet for him as he got close. He staggered into the dark, eyes adjusting as he scanned the room for—but the bedroom was empty.

Erik swallowed down his disappointment and drew his shirt up over his head, then shucked off his pants, tossing them both off to the floor. He stumbled through the room naked until his knees hit the bed, and then he collapsed down onto it gratefully and passed out almost before his cheek hit the pillow. He slept heavily through the rest of the afternoon and most of the night. When he woke up again, Birnin Zana was lighting up the paling morning sky like a million faint points of stars beyond the windows. The room was still empty.

Someone had set out a huge tray of food for him on his desk, plates kept hot under a heating cover. He dragged himself from the bed and fell on it, ravenous. It was still too dark to really see what the dishes were—he hadn’t switched the lights on when he came in—but it didn’t matter, because after a week and a half of dry rations, all of it tasted incredible. Erik slowed a little as he began to lose steam and actually identify what he was shoveling into his mouth: steaming golden rice and lamb pilau glittering with tiny jewel-like cut pieces of fruit, a kind of fried fish, skin crackling and spiced and flesh white, and a simple bowl of glazed fresh-cut fruit and chopped tomatoes. It was food meant to fill Erik’s belly quickly, but he inhaled most of it without stopping. He crawled back into bed when he was finished, this time under the covers, and went soundly into sleep again. 

His body needed the rest; he’d been passed out for most of his stay in the medical wing, but that had just been his body putting itself under to repair itself. It craved real sleep, the good kind that made him feel like he was unconscious again, and it was getting it until he woke up the second time— _something_ had woken him. Klaxons were clanging off in his brain, even as his head felt groggy and mouth fuzzy and he ached all over from lying in one place for too long. Erik squinted around the silent bedroom, craning his head to look over his shoulder. The yellow sun was hanging low in a blazing red sky outside his windows, throwing the entire room in warm shadow. He couldn’t see anything that could have woken him until T'Challa walked out of the adjoining bathroom. 

T’Challa halted when he saw Erik awake and watching him, and then his expression did that gross familiar thing where it softened up and melted like a twelve year old girl’s; Erik snorted and let his cheek drop back onto the pillows, ignoring the way his own face warmed up in response. All the tension he’d been carrying around seemed to seep out of him all at once, and his eyelids were feeling heavy again. He let them close.

The bed dipped on T’Challa’s side. A hand dropped onto his shoulder blade, broad and overwarm; Erik didn’t know if it was the Herb or just how T’Challa was, but T’Challa always ran hot.

“Do you need more sleep?” T’Challa said, voice hushed in the quiet of the room.

Erik raised two fingers from the pillow instead of responding.

There was a smile in T’Challa’s voice when he said, “Was that in hours or days?” 

Erik raised two fingers again: the second one.

T’Challa laughed quietly. The hand on him went sweeping down the length of his back under the covers, then up again, palming at the nape of his neck; Erik tried not to arch into it and failed. “Whus’ time?” he mumbled. 

“Just after seven,” T’Challa said. Then he gently squeezed Erik’s nape and said, “Let me see it.” 

Erik yawned so hard his jaw cracked, and then he obediently reached behind him and pushed the blanket down, exposing his lower back. 

They’d done a good job of it at the medical wing: there wasn’t any sign that there might’ve been a good chunk of charred flesh, dead to the spine, that’d had to undergo intensive care only days ago, and they’d even managed to grow his old scars back. T’Challa swept his hands over the perfect expanse of skin like he was reassuring himself it was all there. Erik recognized it for what it was, because he’d done the same. 

“Shuri told me it was a blaster,” T’Challa said, and someone else might’ve missed the steel in his voice, but Erik didn’t. He wasn’t concerned; he just nodded, flexing his shoulders against the bed. They were really fucking stiff from just lying around like a log, but he couldn’t bring himself to even want to get up yet. “‘S all good now, though,” Erik said fuzzily. “It just caught me off-guard—some kind of alien tech, maybe hybrid Chitauri.” 

“That seems likely,” T’Challa agreed, and then his hands started stroking with more intent, broad motions that pressed in a little at the aching new muscle. “You are so tense here,” he murmured. “Do you have any pains? Have you stretched at all?”

“No, I came here after the hospital,” Erik said, muffled into the pillow. T’Challa was still rubbing a little at his back. Fuck, it felt good—he groaned, encouraging T’Challa to press harder. “Kinda been sleeping on and off since.” 

“Hm.” The hands left him and T’Challa’s weight went off the bed. Erik lifted his head off the pillow, about to protest, until he saw that T’Challa was doing something to the panel by the side of the bed; he closed his eyes as the mattress suddenly went pleasantly heated underneath him, just on the right side of hot. Erik rubbed his cheek against the silky liquid-soft warm sheet underneath his face and listened with half an ear to T’Challa’s footsteps disappearing off into the bathroom again.

T’Challa came back with two bottles, one of something that smelled like faintly medicinal herbs, which he placed on a table panel that’d come sliding out of the wall beside the bed; beside them he set down a shallow glazed bowl and a towel. Erik got with the program and shoved the pillows out from under his head, then kicked the blanket the rest of the way off his bare legs, shivering with the rush of cool air. T’Challa made a low murmuring appreciative noise that went straight to Erik’s head. Erik shifted and put his head down on his folded arms, arching just a little for show.

“You look so good,” T’Challa said quietly as he undressed down to his loose-fitting trousers. The clink of the Panther mantle joining everything else on the table panel was faint and musical. They’d both kept quiet the whole time. Erik didn’t know why, but it felt like the warmth of the room and the red haze of the evening and the darkening shadows on the walls had put them both in a kind of trance they didn’t want to disturb. He didn’t want to know what that said about him—he was getting too soft, maybe. “You look good all the time.” 

Erik hummed drowsily and moved over when T’Challa nudged him towards the middle of the bed and straddled him, settling himself just under the curve of Erik’s ass.

He drifted, listening to the quiet clicking noises of the cap on the bottle getting unscrewed and the slick sounds of T’Challa warming the oil between his hands, scenting the sweet-stinging crushed fragrance of the herbs. Then they were on him: the heels of T’Challa’s hands digging into his trapezius muscles and rhomboids right away, kneading firmly at the tension there.

Erik gripped tight onto his biceps and hissed; there was a _lot._

T’Challa kept going at it with broad sweeping strokes until Erik was making a string of embarrassing noises he usually only made in marginally less embarrassing situations, namely the ones where it was fair because T’Challa was making embarrassing noises _back,_ but now T’Challa was only humming sympathetically and saying shit like, “right there?” and “good,” and “tell me if it hurts,” as he slowly wrung the hell out of Erik’s muscles. T’Challa’s hands were finding all the worst aches and knots, the ones collected in the small of his back and just above both shoulder blades, and they were going in _deep_ , digging and pressing at the epicenter of pain until Erik’s teeth were clenching hard and he was breaking out into sweat and getting ready to tense up and away from T’Challa’s touch, too much—and then the knot would just _go_ , and Erik would be panting into his arms through the tidal rush of aching pain and euphoric relief mixed in one, muscles relaxed into jelly. T’Challa would smooth his big capable hands over the whole trembling expanse of Erik’s back in long soothing strokes, waiting patiently for Erik to relax before he started in on another one.

It went on and on until Erik was pretty sure he was nothing more than a wrung-out puddle on the mattress and T’Challa had started sweeping at the stiff muscles in his arms, taking him down from the high nice and slow. The herbal smell coming off of Erik’s skin and T’Challa’s hands now was faint, but it’d made him dizzy; Erik shifted his hips and half-hard cock against the bed, which was about all the movement he could manage with T’Challa sitting on him and his muscles turned into mush. T’Challa was hard too, dick pressing a heavy hot line against his ass. Erik swallowed. “In me, c’mon,” Erik said finally, hoarse. 

To T’Challa’s credit, he didn’t pause or ask if Erik was sure—the hands on him were gone in the next second. Erik thought T’Challa was just taking off his pants, maybe warming up some more oil, but then there was a thick trickle of a different oil dripping over Erik’s ass and between his thighs, _hot_ and smelling faintly of honey; Erik startled and moaned, tensing as his cock hardened up all the way. 

“Stop fucking around,” Erik said, strained, trying not to give in and rub it out on the heated mattress. He didn’t know if he had the strength for it now anyway; he really was jelly. “If you don’t—” and then he had to cut off because T’Challa was slicking his hand through the oil and Erik was yielding to him, two of T’Challa’s fingers sliding in him all the way, hot and perfect. Erik gasped and arched, toes curling.

“You’re beautiful,” T’Challa was saying over the stunned _thump-thump_ of his heartbeat, and then he was sliding lower over Erik’s prone body and kissing down Erik’s back, fingers curling gently in him. Erik had unfolded his arms at some point and was gripping huge handfuls of the pillows above his head, panting. He spread his thighs wider, straining, wanting, waiting for—and T’Challa was giving it to him, biting at one cheek and spreading Erik open with his slick thumbs, licking in. 

Erik buried a sob into the mattress and raised his hips as well as he could, but T’Challa had him. T’Challa got his fingers back in him again and was lapping around them slowly; then he spread his fingers and licked all the way inside, fucking him languorously with his tongue, really taking his time with it. Erik reached behind himself blindly and grabbed at T’Challa’s head, pulling him in, breaths hitching small in his throat. T’Challa ate him out until Erik felt soaked with it, dripping, and the sounds he were making had gone straight past embarrassing and right into sex-stupid: _unh, uh, uh, ah,_ and he couldn’t even _care._ T’Challa sucked hot kisses around his sensitive rim while he was fucking Erik open with his fingers, rubbing cruelly hard against his prostate and laughing quietly when Erik clenched up around him and twisted his hips; was holding Erik’s hole open with his thumbs and licking into him, teeth scraping. T’Challa’s breath had turned ragged, greedy and hot against Erik’s skin. Everything ached and felt so good, and it was all Erik wanted forever until T’Challa slid three fingers in, filling him with a sudden width that wasn’t _enough._

Erik bit at the pillow and quaked silently, but T’Challa knew him better than anyone in the entire world. He pulled away. “Do you want more?” T’Challa asked, voice roughed up and so lust-hungry Erik shivered to hear it.

“I haven’t seen you in like two whole-ass weeks, so yeah, I _want more_. Get to it, old man,” Erik mumbled, because he was tired and uncoordinated and made slow from the massage and everything else, but he wasn’t _dead_ , and T’Challa laughed and slid his fingers out. “Go on, then,” T’Challa said fondly. “Get on your knees.”

His body felt too heavy to comply, but Erik managed to climb up onto his hands and knees. He wished he could see T’Challa’s face, to watch his eyes go dark and his face slacken with the want he always inexplicably had for Erik—even as it was darkening in the room now, the sky outside finally deepening into twilight—but he was glad T’Challa wouldn’t be able to see _him._ Something in his chest had splintered when T’Challa had first walked into the room, and it was cracking wider in him now while he waited for T’Challa to slick himself up. The head of T’Challa’s cock bumped up against his hole. Erik tensed up at first, and then relaxed, arching as T’Challa started press into him, slow and languid: going in a little ways and pulling out, then fucking back in deeper.

Erik stopped breathing and kept not breathing until T’Challa had slid in all the way, bottoming out, sparks igniting inside him. His cock was straining against his belly, not even softened up a little bit at the pain of the stretch; God, how had he gone two weeks without this? T’Challa’s breaths were coming hard and frayed behind him, oil-slippery hands clenching and releasing and clenching hard over Erik’s waist: his iron-hard control finally going. Erik fisted his hands in the sheets and pulled them tight, letting his breath go in one stuttering rush. He was burning up inside like he had a fever, nipples tightening, hurting.

When Erik nodded, giving him the go-ahead, T’Challa leaned over him and nosed over the back of Erik’s neck, kissing—jealous, loving. Then he pulled back and started moving in him.

T’Challa’s cock felt hot and thick inside him, prying Erik open and stuffing him full, fucking in deeper and scraping agonizingly along his prostate with nearly every thrust; Erik could hear his own raw, exhausted moans over the thundering of his pulse in his ears, could feel his dick dripping on the warm sheets below him. Erik fucked himself back on T’Challa’s cock until he was sweating and his arms and thighs were aching with the strain of holding himself up and open. His arms had begun shaking too, so badly that he was afraid he’d humiliate himself by going sliding forward onto his face, but T’Challa saw it before Erik could plead; he made soothing shushing sounds and stilled his hips, running one of his hands up and down Erik’s back, broad and hot. Erik gave in and went down on his elbows and pressed his forehead against the mattress, teeth bared in a snarl or a whine, trying to find enough leverage or energy to keep driving himself back, but then T’Challa’s hands were gripping tight around Erik’s waist, stilling him. 

“Are you tired?” T’Challa said, the rough strain of want in his voice sparking pleasure up Erik’s spine, spreading hot in between his shoulder blades. Erik snarled even where T’Challa couldn’t see and shoved himself roughly back once in response, startling a laugh from behind him. “All right,” T’Challa murmured, and then, “come,” and he slid one hand around Erik’s body to grip loosely at Erik’s throat, the other arm going around Erik’s waist. 

“Could you move—yes, just like that,” and T’Challa was hauling them upright and back until Erik was suddenly seated fully in T’Challa’s lap, slumped back against T’Challa’s chest with T’Challa’s cock dragging along Erik’s insides in one long hot unbearable slide. “Fuck!” Erik spit, cock spurting more precome. It slicked down his dick, dripping—T’Challa had hooked his chin over Erik’s shoulder, and his hand tightened over Erik’s throat possessively as he watched. Erik’s breath wheezed out of him in a low wanting whine. 

T’Challa nuzzled at Erik’s neck and started moving in him again, guiding Erik down onto him in a semblance of a rhythm; Erik gripped the forearm barred over his belly and reached forward to brace himself against the headboard, thrusting back. “I wish I could keep you here,” T’Challa said breathlessly, hips grinding forward, cock shoved all the way in so deep Erik could feel him in his throat, “in my bed, where you belong, where you are safe,” and Erik squeezed his stinging eyes shut and twisted his head away, unsure what kind of expression he was making at _that_ but knowing he didn’t want T’Challa to catch any of it anyway. “I know you would hate it,” T’Challa continued, like a goddamn dog with a bone; he had his mouth pressed hot to Erik’s cheek, so he could _feel_ it when T’Challa said, “but I want to keep you like this, fuck you like this forever, until you need nothing else but my hands on you and my cock in you,” and Erik couldn’t stop his startled moan, hips jerking back; yeah, he’d hate it, but right now he _wanted_ it.

“You say some stupid shit sometimes,” Erik said, but he was pretty sure his wavering voice gave him away. T’Challa only laughed and kept on driving into him.

After a while Erik’s head went lolling forward, dizzy and drunk on the feeling of T’Challa in him, around him. T’Challa’s hand tightened on his throat and nudged him up again. Erik lifted his head and turned to him, searching blindly; the angle wasn’t good, so their kiss was sloppy and open-mouthed and their noses bumped awkwardly, but Erik didn’t care—he wanted to let T’Challa in, let him take everything, all the good and the ugly in him, and he knew T’Challa would want it all. 

His orgasm was building deep inside him, and he let go of the headboard to grab at T’Challa’s head, blindly tugging, arching, trying to shove T’Challa’s cock in deeper. He could hear himself, the overwhelmed exhausted moaning noises he was making over T’Challa’s hot groaning. He wasn’t thrusting back anymore—he’d run out of strength—but that didn’t seem to matter to T’Challa, who was doing all of the heavy lifting at this point: arms caging him in, holding his lax body still to take his cock, fucking into him deep. He was scorching inside Erik: thick, making him sore. T’Challa was close too, his breath coming faster and hotter and eyes squeezing shut, lashes throwing dark shadows over his cheeks in the dying afternoon light. Erik clenched around him, encouraging him on. T’Challa hissed and tipped them forward again, bracing them up on one forearm and pounding into Erik hard.

Erik was gasping with it, was tightening up around him, breaths hiccuping, cock jerking beneath him untouched, everything going muted with his need, whole body straining and straining towards—and then T’Challa was reaching down between his legs and fisting his hand around Erik’s cock in tight strokes, calloused and perfect. Erik made a shocked wild cry and seized up, spasming around T’Challa’s cock, coming. T’Challa had his face buried in Erik’s neck, beard scratching, muffling his own sob as he came, but he was so good—he kept jerking Erik through it, even as his hips started stuttering and grinding up against Erik’s ass, trying to get deeper, impossibly; coming inside, filling him up. The thought of it made Erik shiver under T’Challa’s weight, clench up around T’Challa one more time.

T’Challa slumped over Erik’s back, but Erik didn’t care; Erik was so beyond caring that he barely twitched when T’Challa kissed the back of his neck and pulled out slowly. Come and oil slipped out of him and between his legs, thighs slicked with it. He did care more when T’Challa withdrew from him, from the bed, but it was like he’d all the strength fucked out of him or something: he couldn’t move, much less speak to protest, all his limbs turned lax and heavy like lead.

T’Challa had left to dampen the soft towel he’d brought in the shallow bowl of water, which by some miracle of technology had stayed hot; he came back with it and started wiping Erik down of all the excess oil and come and sweat in smooth broad strokes made uncoordinated with his own fatigue. It must’ve been creeping up on him for a while now. Erik let his eyes shut and legs part, letting T’Challa clean him.

He lost time underneath the steady soothing strokes. T’Challa was wiping him dry in one minute and climbing back in the bed behind Erik in the next, nudging him until he had Erik the way he wanted: back pressed up along T’Challa’s chest, legs tangled together, gathered up in his arms. Erik didn’t throw him off and complain like he would’ve normally; he didn’t even feel like he had a _body_ left to throw him off with.

T’Challa reached over their heads and fumbled at the control panel. Abruptly, the sheets underneath him cooled. Erik groaned in relief. 

“Better?” T’Challa said, hushed.

“Mm, yeah.” Erik rolled his head, working out the little kinks in his neck T’Challa hadn't gotten to with the massage, and made a herculean attempt to roll over; T’Challa reached around him and helped him, nudging him until they were face to face, so close Erik could see the tired lines beginning to set in at the corner of T’Challa’s eyes. “You did good, _kumkani_ ,” Erik murmured.

T’Challa laughed, a real warm laugh, eyes crinkling. Then he was looking at Erik, searching his face; his smile was fading. 

“I was not here,” T’Challa said quietly. He stroked the side of Erik's face. “I’m sorry. I wanted to be here while you healed.”

Erik had wondered when T’Challa would’ve worked himself up to that. He sighed, barely suppressing his eyeroll as he turned his head to kiss T’Challa's palm. “It ain't like it was a big deal,” Erik said, words running into each other like water in his exhaustion. “They healed me up. I’m straight.”

“It is a big deal,” T'Challa said. “It must have been frightening,” and then before Erik could bristle up at that, he continued, “When I was younger—I was twenty-eight. I almost lost my leg in a bad accident in the mines during one of my visits to the Mound. It was not pretty.”

Erik paused. “What’d you do?”

“Cried like a baby elephant,” T’Challa said. When Erik snorted, he tugged at one of Erik’s locs, smiling. “I did,” T’Challa said. “I thought my life was over; I would never become the Black Panther, much less walk again.”

“But you grew up here,” Erik said, and counted it a personal victory that that sentence didn’t sting like it used to. “You knew you had the tech to fix it, that it was gonna be okay.”

“It is hard to convince yourself that it will be okay when you are staring at your own insides,” T’Challa said dryly. “I cried until Mama walked into the sickroom."

There wasn’t an ounce of shame in his voice. Erik stared at him, his tired handsome face, wondering how a man like T’Challa could exist: full of contradictions that made perfect sense if Erik thought about it, tried to untangle all the complicated strings and knots that made up T'Challa. He didn’t like to think about it often; he didn’t know what that made him.

His mouth was moving before he could stop it. “I knew back at home it was gonna heal up and I'd be good. I just—I didn't get it in the moment. Injury like that, before Wakanda?” He shook his head. “Shit, that would’ve taken me out. I wouldn't be able to do anything after. I'd be dead.”

“I am sorry I was not here when you returned,” T’Challa said. He brushed his thumb over the ridge of Erik's cheekbone, unbearably gentle. “I came as soon as Shuri told me.”

“Nah,” Erik said. “S’okay. Took you months to set up that meeting. Like I said, I just slept.”

“I still would have liked to be with you when you woke,” T’Challa said. “I didn’t want you to wake alone.”

Erik breathed into the cooling evening air. A second passed, and then another, and another. The distant hum of a talon fighter passing by his windows broke the quiet of the dark room, and then it was fading away. He chewed hard on his lip and waited until the heat in his eyes and his cheeks had died down some, glad that it was dark enough that his expression would be difficult to make out.

“You don’t gotta do all that,” he said finally.

“I thought that was the point,” T’Challa said, a little warmer.

Erik shrugged and went along gamely when T'Challa pulled him tighter into his body in response. He put his cheek to T’Challa’s chest, felt T’Challa’s chin drop on top of his head, and let his eyes close, surrounded on all sides. “Whatever you say,” he said.

**Author's Note:**

> This program was brought to you by how desperately I have been needing a massage these past few days.
> 
> There is a recipe for the [pilau](https://tasty.co/recipe/wakandan-jeweled-vegetable-pilau-with-berbere-braised-lamb), and it is delicious!


End file.
